The M of M theory
by ahlade
Summary: Hermione and Draco sitting in a tree. Well, not quite that, but they do attend a ball. In New York. And then get caught doing naughty things.


1The M of M-Theory

AN:M-theory, as you know, is the current numero uno in unification theories, but nobody, and this is quite true, knows what the M stands for. Its chief proponent, the featured Ed Whitten, isn't forthcoming on the subject, though some say M is for Membranes. Pshaw! I say to those, and propose instead that M is for Magic. Read this. Prove with me that girls can do math.

'Ed Whitten is a genius!' proclaimed Hermione Granger, as she walked out of the auditorium into the crystal and marble filled antechamber of the Four Seasons hotel in New York.

'Genius? Really? Whose? What kind?' asked her companion, pausing in his ministrations to his hair.

Hermione put her orgasmic thoughts on M-theory on pause to consider her companion's questions.

'What? Oh! Not a Wizarding Genius, of course. In Muggle terms, we use genius to denote someone of extraordinary ability. Whitten isn't i really /i a magical spirit just waiting to possess you to eat your innards. Though I am sure both signifiers share a common inheritance…'

'Bore me to death more, Granger, why don't you. I'm not dead already by the mind-numbing dullness of theoretical physics. Please stultify me further with tak of semiotics.'

'Theoretical physics is just like Arithmancy, Malfoy. You attend all the Guild of Arithmancers seminars readily enough!' Hermione protested, stopping next to a large potted palm in a corner, away from the milling crowds of physicists and wives of physicists, industry donors and young actresses, journalists and Guild wizards milling around in the anxious fervour of networking, one-upmanship and back-stabbing apparent in any gathering of professionals from the same field.

The room held the cream of the world's talent in Physics and Mathematics, as they all pretended to be pleasantly surprised at Ed Whitten's nomination for a Nobel Prize.

The wizards, there to ensure that none of the Muggles ever found out what the M really stood for in M-theory, were immediately apparent by their odd choice of Muggle clothing. Though Hermione suspected that it was only her trained eye that could tell them apart from the normal population of physicists and aspiring models-- after all, neither group was noted for their seemly sartorial choices. There was a gentleman there dressed in full pirate's dress, while a stick-insect thin girl seemed to be wearing rubber fetish gear. Hermione interrupted her contemplation of the model's rubber-clad hip bones that threatened to tear through the slick rubber to hear her companion nattering on:

'--you would have seen it, Granger, had you stopped for a moment from making eyes at that little upstart from Princetown--'

'I was not making eyes at--- and it's PrinceTON , Malfoy. Princeton! How many times do you need to be told?' Hermione noted with chagrin that came all too easily with anything that had to do with Malfoy, that I he /I apparently had removed 2nd 'had' no problems in dressing like a Muggle: he looked the quintessential Chelsea Charmer— from his blue cashmere sweater to his perfectly-pressed trousers.

u.Looked /u the charmer. Malfoy's manners, however, still required some work.

'I don't need you to tell me anything, Granger,' he sneered, 'least of all anything about this ghastly place. What on earth do they mean by bringing me tea hanging in a bag at the end of a string? And how difficult is it to understand the difference between boil i ing /I water and boil i ed /I water?'

Hermione sighed in resignation. 'Teabags are very popular back home, too, Malfoy.'

'Perhaps with Muggles they are. But Muggles don't really have any standards, do they?' he responded snottily, swiping another flute of champagne off a passing waitress.

Hermione ran her hand through her hair before she could stop herself-- remembering that she couldn't use her wand to reset it into a semblance of order. She put her hands down resolutely, forcing herself not to look at her unruly hair in the pier glass on the wall in the same obsessed manner as her companion. '

'Look, could you just stop complaining for a minute or two? We're almost done. As soon as the Chancellor and Whitten leave, we can all go back to the Guild and reassure everyone that the Statute of Secrecy has not been breached, and that Whitten will not reveal to anyone the existence or nature of Thaumatons. Is that too much to ask?'

Malfoy was completely unimpressed by her plea, though he did look slightly pained at the state of her hair. 'My trousers chafe,' he complained loudly after a moody moment of staring at a tall blonde across the room, who was trying, and failing, to appear unconscious of his scrutiny.

He turned back to her and continued 'I don't believe they have the correct cushioning charm built into the crotch, although Mother assures me they were procured from the best establishment in London.'

Before she could ask him to lower his voice, he continued in his obnoxious upper class drawl: 'Moreover, the lighting here is simply dreadful. It makes me look quite pallid. And my hair looks absolutely terrible. I am so glad no one I know could possibly have seen me here.'

'If it isn't Draco Malfoy! No mistaking that hair, I say! Haha. Could have been your father from behind, m'boy! Ha ha!'

Draco turned around with a strained smile. A large, rotund man with a splendid cleft beard, clad in the full dress uniform of a Highland regiment was bearing down on them, red-faced with bonhomie born of too much wine.

'Chancellor Rudcolly. How lovely to see you here,' Malfoy intoned, in the voice of one who meant exactly the opposite and wished very much to be elsewhere.

The Chancellor, however, seemed inordinately pleased to see the blond man, and clapped a large friendly hand on his back.

'You are here with the Guild of Arithmancers, I see. Narcissa told me that you were doing very well with them. Lovely to see scientific cooperation between the communities, I say. Haha. I think M-theory is a wonderful link don't you? Haha . M for Magic. Haha. Except they don't know that! Haha.'

He spoke in a careless, overbearing voice used to command , and Hermione thought that the M of M-theory was unlikely to remain secret very much longer if subjected to the continuous assault of the Chancellor's considerable vocal prowess.

'At least none apart from Whitten's crowd, haha. Didn't follow a word he said, did you? Strings? I didn't see any strings. Did you?' The Chancellor had been followed by a molasses-like tide of obsequious yes-men, who had ranged themselves around him in loose formation, and tittered attentively at everything he said.

Obviously used to having a circle of sycophants offering choral services, Rudcolly continued in the unnaturally loud voice of the particularly well-bred:

'And what that Granger witch was going on about—that I-dimension stuff. Haha. I only know one "I", and that is me. Haha.' A veritable concerto of polite titters ensued at the witticism. At this point, keeping in mind Hermione's acute discomfort, hidden as she was from the Chancellor by his wall of toadies, Draco chose to remember his manners.

'Chancellor, allow me to introduce Miss Hermione Granger. We proposed the Unmade by Force Cosmic model while at Hogwarts together.'

As he pulled her forward, Draco smiled his Serene Smile of Solicitude that made the women around him fidget and flutter and break out in bad cases of Feminine Guile. Even the thin woman on the outskirts of the circle of titter, (who, on the evidence of the sheer number of carats of diamonds on her person, Hermione took to be the Chancellor's wife) fanned herself while adjusting the large diamond pendant on her thin chest, and she hadn't even been in his direct line of vision. Hermione remembered that Smile from Hogwarts—it had gotten Malfoy out of numerous onerous duties and countless detentions. Once, famously, it had even made McGonagall smile back during Transfiguration, which Hermione had on the authority of Nearly Headless Nick, was definitely a first.

She harrumphed in annoyance at seeing that smile in action again, which, of course, was exactly when the Chancellor turned his head and beamed at her in his red-faced glory.

'Miss Granger,' he said, 'fascinating theories. Fascinating. I was entranced. Haha.'

'Thank you, Chancellor,' Hermione said, smiling for all her worth, and pretending that she had been Obliviated of her memories of the past five minutes.

Almost immediately, though, she had been dismissed, as the Chancellor turned back to Malfoy.

'Ah! Promoting interaction in the community, young Malfoy! How suitable! One likes to see positive action against all that You Know What business. I would be delighted if you came to the ball my wife and I are giving tonight for the nobel prize won by Mr. Ed Whitten. With the young lady, of course! Delighted! Haha!'

He patted Malfoy heartily on his back. 'I'll send you an owl with the invite. It's at a Muggle chap's country house near here.'

He leaned conspiratorially toward them and lowered his voice a tad, which meant that though it was not immediately audible in the street below, a passer-by could have still made out the sound, if not the words themselves. 'Muggles think I am an eccentric English pier. I don't know what gave them the idea I had anything to do with launching boats in an unpredictable manner…. These Muggles! Ha-ha! Have you i any /I idea what they wear under these skirts?' He waggled his Poseidon like eyebrows roguishly at Malfoy, whose carefully trained features betrayed some slight trepidation at this stage.

Thankfully, for the well being of all concerned, an aide whispered something unintelligible into Rodcolly's ear, which made him take his leave of Malfoy with much enthusiastic slapping of his back, leaving that eternal question unanswered.

The Chancellor and his entourage continued on his way out of the room like a majestic galleon followed in its wake by sundry tugs and small boats, which left a slightly perplexed Hermione and a very deflated looking Malfoy behind.

Six hours later, dressed in a hurriedly bought, far too expensive dress and similarly imprudent, much too high shoes, Hermione found herself braving New York traffic and its clearly suicidal taxis. She tottered out of her taxi and into the gleaming foyer of Malfoy's expensive boutique hotel, where he was patently NOT waiting for her as had been agreed.

Instead, the polite receptionist came up to her as she looked wildly around, and requested her to proceed to 'Mr. Malfoy's' suite. It should not have been possible to stomp in four- inch stiletto heels, but Hermione Granger was nothing if not a witch of great resource and enterprise.

She duly made her way to said Mr. Malfoy's suite, where the occupant, in blatant disregard of the Statute of Secrecy, spelled the door open for her.

'Whyfore the twisted knickers, Granger? Your hair actually looks human for a change,' came Malfoy's languid drawl from the bedroom, as she entered the entirely too nice suite, which was most certainly not like the paid-for-by-the-Guild accommodation she was staying in.

Looking at the subdued grandeur around her did nothing to assuage Hermione's temper. 'Honestly, Malfoy! We were supposed to meet in the foyer ten minutes ago! And what if someone had been with me? You can't very well be spelling doors open willy-nilly all over the place!'

'Tut, tut! Is it that time of the month? I thought that was last week when you turned poor Fourstool Furbank into a Fanged Frisbee…. Took a chunk right out of my new cloak, he did!' Malfoy said, carefully buttoning his dress shirt, entirely unconcerned by her fury.

'I'm doing this as a favour to you, Malfoy, which you would do well to remember! I don't need to be going out to some stiff ball when I could be out with my friends in Greenwich, doing something interesting in shoes that are not designed specifically to inflict maximum pain to all my pressure points!' fumed Hermione, as she tottered to his bed and sat down unceremoniously.

He meticulously fastened onyx and diamond cufflinks on his immaculate shirt.

Far from being upset at her, Malfoy merely smiled tolerantly and pulled on a backless waistcoat of a cut of quite astonishing beauty. Hermione blinked and could not decide whether it was she or he who had imbibed too freely of the champagne at the conference lunch.

'And you a witch,' he said, picking up his platinum-handled wand from the ebony-topped dressing bureau, and lazily flicking it at her feet, which made her swiftly jerk them off the ground, thus making her fall backwards on the entirely too soft bed. This did not improve her mood.

But when she put her feet down on the floor she felt a distinct absence of excruciating pain. She looked quizzically at him, as he regarded her in the mirror while giving finishing touches to his hair with minuscule movements of his wand.

He met her eyes in the mirror. 'Cushioning Charm, witch. Best friend of the well-dressed witch and wizard. What did you think I was doing? Giving you Ever-Dancing shoes?'

'One Seven-League boot, actually', Hermione muttered, reluctantly testing out her infinitely more comfortable shoes that still retained the miraculous ability to make her thinner and more beautiful.

'Seven-League Boots are expensive antiques, 'said Malfoy. 'And you have to be very good at plotting destinations that are exactly multiples of seven leagues away from where you are. Gets tricky. Which, incidentally, does not excuse your ignorance of simple Cushioning Charms.' He seemed teasing, rather than smugly superior, which was distinctly discombobulating to Hermione.

'We can't be using magic all over the place while going to an event full of Muggles and the Muggle press!' responded Hermione hotly, who foolishly, hadn't thought of using the charm.

'Really?' said Malfoy, with expertly raised eyebrow. 'How is it then that you happily use magic to keep your dress up? That's i far /I more visible than a Cushioning Charm.'

Hermione looked down at her strapless black Dior dress, with its fitted bodice and full skirt. It did show a startling amount of cleavage, as she could see in the mirror opposite her, and it seemed her spilling bosom hadn't really been a trick of the light in her small bathroom as she had earlier dismissed it to be.

A blush of mortification coloured the exposed flesh, rising rapidly to her face. 'It isn't magic, Malfoy. It's just… it's a month's wages worth of dress,' she gritted out, wishing very much she had a wrap of sorts to cover herself from his suddenly satyr-like gaze. When did this happen, she wondered. When did they develop this sexual tension between them?

Malfoy let out a whistle of practised lecherousness. 'Oho! Granger! Such… largesse! There is something to be said for Muggle clothes after all!' With that, he walked over to his walk-in wardrobe, even as Hermione struggled to compose herself.

He emerged wearing a dinner jacket so well-tailored that he simply had to have spelled it on. Hermione carefully refrained from harrumphing.

He ranged himself next to her, slipping an easy arm around her waist and looking critically at their reflection in the mirror. Turning to her, he said earnestly: 'Not bad, Granger. I'm still the prettier, of course, but that's entirely to be expected.'

He turned back to the mirror, making last minute adjustments to his toilet with immense concentration. 'But you are very kindly going to this thing with me; I concede it is very much a favour. Our family needs to keep on the right side of the Chancellor and be seen to be making all the right…reparations…after that Voldemort business. You know that. And I appreciate that you would come with me to this very public occasion on such short notice.'

Hermione, despite her newly stable shoes, was startled enough to fall back on his bed, a trend she realised, she really ought to curb in its infancy. He was being polite. Polite and reasonable. It was … a paradigm shift.

She still had to process his past words, and he was advancing on her with an ominous looking flat box.

'I thought, as did Mother, that I ought to bribe you with this,' he said, as he opened the box beside her on the bed. It was a beautiful necklace—diamonds and onyx, to match his cufflinks.

'Are you completely off your rocker, Malfoy? ' Hermione sprang back from the diamonds blazing in their bed of blue velvet as if they were cursed.

'Oh, quit the affronted maiden act! It's just a loan for tonight! So you don't disgrace me. Graff sent it over with my stuff, and are hoping desperately that I'll like it. Don't you want to make the month for a poor starving shop girl somewhere?' he held up the shimmering band enticingly at her, smiling the Smile.

He had never ever smiled it at her before.

She looked at him. At his faultless evening dress, at his face softened by a smile which had probably been taught him at his mother's knee as a key piece in the Malfoy arsenal; at the genetically fragile rare silver of his perfectly groomed hair; at the perfectly tapered fingers of his beautifully kept hands; at the balanced graceful ease of his beautiful posture. She looked at him, and saw how alien he was to her, how different his world to hers.

Something bid her silent; and she turned around obediently as he feathered soft fingers over her exposed neck and fastened the cold heavy weight of the gems around her throat. It wasn't tight, the necklace, but somehow she couldn't breathe. Something bubbled and churned in her breast as he breathed over her shoulder, and she had never felt that way about her shoulder, her skin, before… she couldn't think, she felt naked and exposed…she could smell him, his breath on her--

'Well, we can't apparate to this thing. They can't have unaccounted for people popping up all over the place, you know!' she said waspishly, voice taut and high, breaking the spell he was casting over her, the tricky devil.

He moved back, completely at ease, while she still couldn't seem to find enough air.

'I'm not a complete nincompoop, Granger. A carriage shall take us there,' said Malfoy, putting on his heavy signet ring and putting away his wand in a specially-made pocket in his jacket, undoubtedly magically altered, for no trace of it showed on the faultless front.

Malfoy's 'carriage' turned out to be a beautiful Rolls Royce with a liveried chauffer in attendance and a well-stocked bar. Of the latter, Hermione made full use, trying to take her mind off the blond sitting indolently beside her, and trying desperately to ignore the coagulating air around her, the memory of his breath on her skin.

Her flute of champagne seemed one of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes trick ones, for however many times she filled it; it seemed to get remarkably empty very quickly.

The ball was at a neo-classical mansion set back from the road, and they swept up a curved drive behind gleaming motors and uniformed drivers. Tasteful music and lights spilled onto a majestic flight of stairs covered in red carpet; men in dark suits and women in sweeping ball gowns paraded up and down in stately beauty. Unexpectedly, Hermione felt thankful for the priceless jewels around her neck, now seeming less foreign, warmed by her flesh.

She was handed out by a solicitous footman, and Malfoy came up to take her hand with practised ease. Cameras flashed, people posed, and suddenly she was inside with more noise and more people.

'God, this is tedious,' she heard Malfoy say in her ear as she was swept up into the thick of flashing teeth and jewels and sombre serving staff.

When she found her bearings she was alone, and there was no sign of the silver head around her. She was close to a set of French windows with a balmy breeze blowing in from the beautifully-lit garden, and followed, as if in a trance, the scent of jasmine and roses down a winding garden path.

There was something in her heart, some lacuna. The ocean breeze made her breathless and giddy, the flowers' scent made her ache in inchoate want; she felt empty and wistful and strange…. Whimsical and not Hermione Granger at all; when footsteps sounded behind her an odd sort of eagerness welled up inside.

He came up behind her, and she, coy like a maiden, kept her back to him, resolute. He was insistent, nibbling at her ears, her neck, breath susurrant, stripping her skin at a thousand nerve endings. He wasn't delicate, not now, pressed firmly behind her, a hand snaking confidently over her shoulders, her breasts, pushing her strongly towards his tall hard body. She could feel his wand digging into her back, and something else insistent, as hard, definitely not a wand, and she smiled in recollection of a similar event almost five years ago.

Would he call his wand his wand and run away now as he had then? Should she turn around, affronted, maybe slap him at his presumption?

Or should she let her head fall back so, neck exposed to his questing kisses?

Should she let her hands hold him thus, captive, so very close, till he strummed with her heartbeat, and she with his?

Or should she turn around in his arms like this, the low wall digging into her lower back, to hope desperately that he would kiss her before she needs meet his eyes?

Would he taste of champagne and distance and so very forbidden, and should she remember in such magnified detail how a kiss could kill you with sensation?

Was that his voice or hers? Moaning in desperation at bodies still too far apart, though they writhed together in whispers of silk against silk and fevered flesh against sun-warmed stone.

Could she be the brazen hussy whose leg was snaking up his, opening herself to him, thrusting her breasts in his face?

And was he the composed Pureblood with silver hair hanging all over flushed face who was panting in desperate need to get under her voluminous silk skirt, to touch her, consume her, and be consumed by her?

And was it a famed physicist who had just won a Nobel Prize, who came through the azaleas with an important donor to his department, intending to show him the view of the ocean from the landscaped terrace, but found instead a frantically rutting couple in a vastly advanced state of undress? Indeed it was. Matters were not helped by the fact that the donor seemed loath to leave, and avidly interested in the silver-haired man struggling to hold on to his shy paramour who seemed to… no, it could not be-- floating half a foot off the ground.

Epilogue

'So!' The Magicstrate started portentously, settling down in his tall oaken chair, peering over preposterous bottle glasses.

Hermione squirmed, while Draco stared complacently back.

'This is a gross breach of the Statute. Quite, quite gross,' barked the Magicstrate, eyes ridiculously large behind his funny glasses.

'I must, of course, read the list of charges, before I prescribe the fine.'

He waved his wand at a statue of blind Justice behind him, which intoned in a dead even voice:

'On the 24th of June, 54 PG, the accused, spinster Hermione Jane Granger and bachelor Draco Eristicus Vulcan Imputorius Luiserne Mustela Furos Aeschylus Malfoy were caught by two Muggles in carnal company of each other; seen to be using the charms hoverous, engorgio, silencio and divestio. As a result of their actions, officials were forced to perform Obliviate on one Muggle, as well as an Informed Muggle of the name Edward Whitten, who did wish to be a recipient of said engorgio charm in order to maintain silence according to the International Statute of Secrecy, 1692, Section 296 c , Paragraph 3, referring to the statute as applicable to Informed Muggles. As a result of the Obliviate performed on him, said Muggle did forget his informed status, as well as the nature of M in the M-theory he has proposed to the Muggle world in order to explain The Nature of the Universe. For this damage to relations between the Muggle and Wizarding worlds, the accused are to be fined a sum of 1000 galleons to be paid to the Magicstrate in full at the time of hearing.'

The statue stopped speaking and idly scratched its nose.

'Well,' said the Magicstrate, 'have you anything to say?'

'Meep!' said Hermione Granger.

'As it happens, I do!' said Draco Malfoy. 'I did not perform any of these charms. I submit my wand for priori incantato to the court.'

'Mr Malfoy, the obliviators extracted the images of events from the memory of Mr Whitten, and the images are quite clear!' the Magicstrate said sternly.

The blind statue of Justice giggled.

'I submit my wand,' repeated Malfoy nonchalantly.

'Mr Malfoy, there were definite …signs of these charms being cast.' The Magicstrate was emphatic.

'I didn't cast them. I am naturally well–endowed. I am also amazingly dextrous, 'Draco continued unflappably.

'Your honour,' squeaked Hermione.' I might have accidentally cast hoverous on myself. I –I tend to do it when. WhenImsexuallyexcited. I too wish to submit my wand for priori incantatem!' she finished hurriedly, very much aware of Malfoy's amused gaze on herself.

'Very well,' said the Magicstrate. 'The court shall consider your evidence--put your blindfold back on!'

The statue of Justice, who had been staring unabashedly at Malfoy, sulkily complied and knotted her blindfold.

Malfoy lowered his gaze and, transferring the Smile to Hermione, winked a slow confident wink of one who can seduce inanimate objects with consummate ease.

'The court shall reach a verdict after due cons--'the Magicstrate began, but was interrupted by Justice.

'The court pronounces the accused not guilty of charges. The court however holds them culpable of wilful neglect and imposes upon Draco Eristicus Vulcan Imputorius Luiserne Mustela Furos Aeschylus Malfoy, bachelor, community service comprising of the care of the beautifully sculpted statue of Justice in the Magicstrates court at Diagon Alley for a period of one month, to be served daily and to be reconsidered at the end of the period.'

The Magicstrate opened and closed his mouth several times and then said: 'What about the other accused?'

'Oh, she can go—she clearly cannot be held responsible for her reactions. The court wishes Draco to start his community service immediately. Court is adjourned.'

end


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